Constellation of the Queen
by disposablehero
Summary: Sprawling epic romance/political intrigue, picks up 3/4 years after the end of the game, sequel not acknowledged. Canon pairings, lovelorn Larsa.
1. In the Castle of the Queen

The Queen of Dalmasca stood on her balcony, a glass of wine in her hand. The moon hung violet over the deserts to the west, painting their sand and rock silver and pale blue. Old glossair trails from traffic to the aerodome shone spectral white in the sky.

Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca swirled her wine in its crystal glass, observed the way the wan liquid caught the light and broke it into amber and amethyst on the stonework railing. Her blood pulsed beneath her skin; she felt it in her wrists, the sides of her neck where the arteries beat.

She had cut many arteries in her battles. Men and beasts and monsters and gods. She still commanded the Espers; on their strength Dalmasca had, in the three short years since peace descended, gone from an Imperial fiefdom to the single great power of the land. Even Rozarria, with her mighty fleet and charismatic ruler, knew to stay her hand when her ambitions turned to Dalmasca.

She had visited Rozarria of recent. Al-Cid Margrace had bowed and kissed her hand, and after the proper show of his gardens and his fountains and his onion-topped castles, had asked her a question. She'd said, "No," as was her right, and he had accepted gracefully, as befit his breeding. He'd said of course he understood that to wed would upset the delicate balance of superpowers; that she was very selfless to deny herself in order to preserve the peace. He'd smiled as he spoke, and bore no ill-will.

These things were true, but they were not the reason she'd refused his suit. The simple fact was, as well-built, tall, dark and handsome as he may be, his manners offended her. She was a warrior, bred in hot sun and barren wastes to withstand all adversities. She was not fit for life in lush Rozarria, waited on hand and foot by the maidens who also attended her husband when her own entertainments palled.

And yet… She'd looked those veiled and silk-swathed women in the eyes, eyes like hot, swollen fruits picked off exotic trees. As ashamed as it made her, standing beneath the pitiless moon alone, she might well have said "Yes" if Al-Cid had asked her a question of a different sort.

She could not put her finger on a reason for her restlessness. She turned away from the spectre of Rasler, who still sometimes shimmered with magicite borealis in the corner of her eye. He had known her: she sipped the wine, felt its clean spice on her tongue. Her mouth swelled with mint and pepper.

The stone still radiated the desert sun's warmth, in spite of the cold night air. The castle felt alive beneath her bare feet, her forearms resting on the stone, as if at any moment it would heave up from its foundation and lumber off to the horizon like a great guardian beast. She leaned forward, her wine glass dangling over open air between her interlocked fingers.

Rasler had been gentle but distant, almost off-hand; it was his way with her. She had suspected passion within him, dreamed of it. If only they had had more time, she might have drawn it out.

On their wedding night, he'd dispatched her maidenhead with one clean thrust, then tended to her hurt with kisses. He was noble. She assumed he intended a more thorough loving at a time when it would not cause her pain, but then Archadia invaded Nabudis.

In her life after that as Amalia, daughter of a general who'd died during the initial occupation, she was required to present herself as a taken woman to preserve the morale of the troops she commanded. Only a small group of knights, led by Vossler, knew her true identity. Vossler himself attended her, assiduous as a hand-maiden, and just as attractive; since he was the most trusted of her subordinates, it made sense to maintain the pretense of a relationship with him. Nothing ever happened, however. Rank and morale came first, and she did earnestly grieve for Rasler, who cast a long shadow.

But Vossler had loved her, she admitted to herself. He'd made the ultimate sacrifice to secure her kingdom, her dream. But his choice was wrong, borne of a desperation rooted in cowardice. No, Vossler had not caught her eye, and the occasional rebel who had could not come close enough to her to matter.

Then there were those… well, at first she had thought of them as rabble. Ashe smiled to herself, remembering her initial prejudice and outright shock at the free manners of Vaan and Penelo, Balthier and Fran. Vaan and Penelo were just children then—undisciplined, rash, exceptionally talented children, true Dalmascans. After four years of hunting, Vaan was the effective head of Clan Centurio; although Montblanc still researched reports of legendary beasts, Vaan now led the hunts for the toughest. In lulls, he drilled new hunters on battle tactics in the deserts surrounding Dalmasca. Penelo spent increasing amounts of time helping Migelo run his shop. Both young people were well set for the future, and the letter Lady Ashe received from Penelo yesterday had borne glad tidings.

Ashe sat at the delicate crystal and stone table, a gift from the Marquis of Bhujerba, and finished her wine. She now knew why sleep had not come to her this night. Penelo, at twenty-one, was expecting her first child. Vaan was the proud father. The news had caught Ashe off-guard; she had been expecting them to wed first. She smiled to herself now at her naivete. Had she not once, wistfully, spent a night much like this one envying their freedom to love one another as peasants?

It was on the Ozome Plains, during the time they drilled with Lord Larsa; it had been Penelo's idea to tarry there and practice, for they had recently acquired many weapons they did not know how to use. Lord Larsa also had a magic pouch which produced endless healing potions, which made it simple. They had spent a week, all told, preparing for the difficult trek through the jungle ahead.

One night, after the successful hunt for the Enkelados, Ashe had watched Vaan and Penelo, standing just outside the flickering light of the campfire.

Larsa was asleep, rolled in a blanket inside the light, and the silhouette of Penelo's head turned to look down at him. Ashe's heart had contracted with pity for the girl. Larsa was nobleness itself towards her, and Ashe had seen Penelo begin to wish for something she shouldn't have. Then Vaan took Penelo's hand, tugging her gently away. Ashe heard low words, softly said: Vaan to Penelo. Penelo stood on tiptoe; the bodies began to blend together—Ashe looked away, granting them privacy. The sky was a river of stars.

When they walked away, Ashe did not raise the alarm. They were camped on a slope of land where Wus alone congregated, and Wus roosted in the evening by facing the canyon wall and tucking their beaks into their breasts. They would not be attacked.

And there was no reason they could not wander off together if they wished to. As peasants, no royal bloodlines were at stake. No one, in short, cared as they would if Ashe herself indulged such appetites. Ashe was then aware that she could not take up the throne if the people did not approve of her; also, a woman could not lead men who vied for her favors; the answer was restraint.

But why not now? Ashe asked herself. The decanter of wine on the table glowed in the dove-light from the east. She did not yet want to marry. Possibly she never would. A marriage would indeed disrupt the balance of powers which Ashe used all her diplomatic and militaristic forces to protect. A lover, however, would not raise many eyebrows: she was the heroine-Queen, savior, and Head of State. Her people were fanatically loyal to her, and she wielded twelve Espers when one was enough to make a Dynast-King.

In other words, she would be allowed lovers, should she desire them. Ashe knew this in her noble bones, bred to be attentive to fluctuations in the love of her people. There would have to be a few concessions, of course: she could not take up with, say, a sky pirate and expect the people to bear it; but a nobleman or a high-ranking knight—no one would object to that.

She had desired Balthier for a season. There was, to begin with, his cocky body movements and the way he so subtly seduced every woman he passed. But Ashe remembered him best as he was when he stood on the sands of the Phon Coast, exposed his fear of the stone and his concern for her, and made himself vulnerable. There was something terrible in the ease with which vulnerability found her heart. She watched him for a time afterward, but for Fran alone did he take off his clown's face—so she dropped her gaze. Her heart had quailed when she thought him dead, but she grieved as for a friend, not for a lover missed.

The sun edged over the eastern horizon, igniting the sandstone bluffs. Swords of red and coral flame chased the dim stars west.

It has only taken me all night, and I have run out of others to think of, Ashe thought ruefully. I might as well say his name.

"Good morning, Basch," she said.


	2. A Constellation of the Queen

In Archades, crown capital city of Archadia, Basch Fon Ronsenburg unbuckled his heavy breastplate and greaves. His shoulders sprang up, rubbery from the sudden release of weight, and he rotated them gratefully as Argentine, his man-servant, hung the armor on its pegs. To the right of his armor pegs, the Zodiac spear leaned against the wall, gleaming gently in the sunstones' light.

"For dinner, I would like pepper wine, salad, flat bread, and curried lamb," Basch said, flexing his arms. "I will want a bath afterwards."

"Of course, sir," Argentine said, bowed, and withdrew.

Life in Archades was unlike life in Nabudis or Dalmasca. Nabudis, Dalmasca: these were countries of desert and fen. Archades, however, enjoyed fertile soil, a kind climate, and marched with greater luxury thanks to it. Though Basch did not allow himself many indulgences, a nightly bath was one of them.

During his long imprisonment in Nalbina Fortress, one of his dreams had been a hot bath. Other dreams had come and gone. He had thought to kill his brother, the traitor, but eventually honor won; he decided to mete out his twin's punishment as honor required, but not for vengeance. Then he dreamed of women: Tamitha, that gentle woman who had seen him into manhood, and the Lady Ashe, though the thoughts dishonored him. Still, he'd come to face many unpleasant thruths about himself during his time in the pit, and he was not so proud as to believe himself capable of serving the Princess without loving and wanting to please her. All knights who served her felt the same.

The thought of Her Majesty even now was enough to make his breath catch.

He had worked out hard today and his muscles were banded and warm. Emporer Larsa was on a diplomatic visit to Rozarria to meet a young royal lady there; it would have sent the wrong message for Basch to accompany him. Basch used the time to drill. He rubbed liniment into his shoulders as he thought back on the disquieting conversation he had had with the young lord just before he left for Rozarria.

Lord Larsa, at nineteen, had easily won Basch's respect and awe for his steely maturity and readiness to sacrifice. The recent news of Penelo's condition had hit the young man hard, but he nonetheless set the parchment aside with a small smile, saying, "I know of none better than those two to receive love's award."

Without lifting his eyes, Lord Larsa walked to the window, straightened and looked out over the Imperial city. "When I return from Rozarria, Sir Basch, successful or no, I must continue my work. Before I am dead, I must create of Archadia a Senatorial democracy with an elected official as its head. Power cannot be transmitted by the blood of a venal race in this new age without gods."

"Perhaps not, Your Majesty, though I believe you do yourself little credit."

Larsa turned the compliment aside with a small gesture of his hand. He had grown tall, though he showed no sign of developing Vayne's intimidating breadth of shoulder and chest. He said over his shoulder, "This is the work that must be done for Archadia to be safe for her people and for the lands that march her borders. This is a country that can be easily led to fascism with her eyes quite shut. I believe Dalmasca to be different. Queen Ashelia would certainly face a war of protest should she try to step down from the throne."

He smiled and faced the window again. "Sir Basch, we both know my plans for this country are unpopular amongst the aristocracy, and my time to implement them may be short indeed. If Rozarria's Lady Shuel will wed me, and if she subsequently bears a son, he could solidify my position, but only if he grows to share my ideals. As for my life itself, it will never be completely secure, no matter how successful I am in my aims."

There was a pause while Larsa linked his hands behind his back. Bash shifted and cleared his throat to speak, but Larsa said, "What I mean to tell you, good knight, is I think it time to release you from service to return to whichever country you choose citizenship in. I believe you may lay claim to several. That includes this one, of course, should you care to stay." The Emporer Larsa looked over his shoulder again. "I do not need your answer now. Please, use my time away to consider. No matter where you go, you will continue to collect your wages for life as a token of the Empire's gratitude. I only wish I could do more."

"Your Majesty," Basch said, bewildered, "if I have given offense, I will lay down my life in penance."

"Not at all." Larsa moved from the window to the desk, sudden violence in his movements. "But if I may speak plain, today I have received this wound, this letter from a woman I will never know as a man. She is happy; she loves another; she is having his child—the child I feel should be mine. Not this Empire, nor all my power, can assuage that pain, as though I've lost my only family." He caught himself. "I believe you can understand that feeling as well."

Basch swiftly crossed the room to the young man's side. Larsa slumped in his throne, pale. "I apologize for that outburst," he said quietly as Basch knelt.

Basch did not touch him. He said, "My Emporer, I think no less of you for it."

"No." Larsa shook his head, and the knight saw the young ruler gathering himself. Within moments, the man's face was calm, though sadness still lingered around the corners of his mouth and eyes. "I am a public person. I must live by and for the will of the people, and I serve her best by preserving this peace for her child." He spoke as if to himself.

He shook his head and focused on Basch, who still knelt with one gauntleted hand on the wooden arm of his throne.

"Sir Basch, you are more father to me than ever my own was. Please, accept your just reward for your long life of service to others."

Basch reached out and cupped the back of Lord Larsa's head, pressing his forehead against the Emporer's.

"Lord Larsa, I would be proud to have you as my son. You are not without family for as long as I live."

There came a knock on the door of Basch's bedchamber, jarring him out of his reverie. Basch crossed the room and opened it for Argentine and another servant carrying his dinner on trays.

They set the dinner out along the table and exited with bows. Basch ignored the service, as he always did; Archadian custom for persons of rank was room service, which Basch tolerated, as he disliked the stares when he ate in the military mess. The Archadian military had never decided whether they loved or hated him, but they respected him, as well they should; he had massacred hundreds of them during the war.

As he drank mulled wine and chewed the tender lamb, sopping up the juices with the flatbread, he realized the only thing keeping him in Archades was the Emporer's intense solitude: this was the very reason his brother had bound him to Larsa's service with his dying wish.

It was not loneliness, for Lord Larsa was too self-controlled to succumb. The young lord purposely arranged diplomatic visits, educated himself, and involved himself in improving his country. He kept endlessly busy.

But he was, nonetheless, alone. Basch, as his personal bodyguard, had cause to overhear the better part of the Emporer's conversations, and not once did he hear Larsa turn the conversation towards himself or divulge any personal feelings or dreams whatsoever. Lord Larsa was limitlessly patient, diplomatic, intelligent, and analytical, but he was not intimate with anyone. He was, by all accounts, as genius a statesman as his brother was a strategist.

The corruption and death of his brother, and the ongoing debate about the value of what Vayne had won for the world, had wizened the young man's nature. If he had ever taken too much wine or a woman to bed, Basch had not been there to see it. He was careful, observant, and kept his own counsel; as time passed the growing teen had come to show his hurt feelings only to Basch, and only on occasion.

Basch hated the thought of Lord Larsa never speaking his feelings at all. He had misgivings about Larsa's increasingly frequent mentions of himself as a sacrifice to the people, a kind of non-entity meant to facilitate the growth of a democratic state.

"A woman would help with that," he murmured.

"Pardon?" Argentine was at his elbow, refilling his wine glass. "Your bath is waiting for you, sir."

Basch glanced down at his empty plate, surprised. He'd eaten his dinner while absorbed in his own thoughts. He did that often.

"Aye, my thanks," he said.

Argentine loaded up the tray. "Your robe is there," he said, nodding with his chin as he exited.

Long ago, Argentine had displayed more proper man-servant behaviors, until Basch had lost his temper and roared them out of him. The whole notion of a man-servant was ridiculous.

The floor of the bathing room was paved with flagstones, and running down the middle of the room, two trenches glowed red with hot coals. The tub crossed perpendicular to these coals, filled with hot water controlled by sluices. The tub was already full; scented steam swirled off its surface.

Basch took off his robe, carefully crossing the coal trench to put it on a hook on the wall. Then he slipped into the high-sided tub. His overworked muscles immediately melted, numbed by the near-scalding water, and he took a deep breath as his skin smarted. On some invisible cue, servants outside the room poured water down the trenches on the floor to create steam. Basch leaned back and breathed deeply. He relaxed further as his body adjusted to the temperature of the water.

The steam smelled not of smoke but of wonderful herbs from the fragrant woods used as coals. This was what he dreamed of during those long years in Nalbina, being tortured by his faithless brother and kept ankle-deep in his own filth.

The steam swirled thickly, billowing now. On a full belly, Basch drowsed. The steam formed a woman's shape, a short red leather skirt, slim thighs. Those determined eyebrows—That was what he saw that time she resurrected him: those eyebrows, straight and stern.

He had spent long hours on the march gazing at her back, as well, or at the curve of her jaw into her neck as she slept. She was a perfect being. In his waking, conscious mind, Basch had enough pride and experience to know that none was perfect, but his subconscious, honest mind worshiped the Lady Ashe as an ideal. She had overcome adversity that would make a man divorce his God to rule as indisputed and beloved Queen.

And she had done it with little or no help from anyone.

Basch sleepily grabbed the soap and lathered his skin. The steam was thick and furry. Basch began to feel as if he were floating alone in some hot, volcanic cloud.

He missed her. Gods, how he missed her! Even the smell of her after weeks on the road crossing some wildness or another, when everyone in their party down to prim little Penelo was attracting flies—the memory that smell now made his heart beat faster. He had lived to protect her, to serve her, to look after her and to please her. She had asked him to battle gods for her, and he had done so; and every time he fell in battle, she had cradled his head and prayed over him. He returned to life with her scent in his nose.

Basch's mouth opened slightly. The steam puffed in and out in time with his short breaths as the water sloshed rhythmically. He groaned, remembering a hundred of her innocent movements that unwittingly exposed a hip, a flank, her arched throat. A constellation of the Queen. Her voice, the breathless trembling. Some water slopped over the sides of the tub to the coals below, sending up reciprocal streams of new steam into the heavy-laden air.


	3. Larsa's Strategem

Larsa gazed out of the window of his carriage.

Rozarria's palace was located in its capital city of Benellad on the outmost edges of the lush southern rainforest. Just beyond the capital city, the mountains and high plains of the north reared up sharply, cutting the sky in half. The palace itself had its prospect on a hill slightly above a glittering lake rimmed by beautiful plants, rare and ripe. Larsa had no idea what they were called.

He sighed. He had a sheaf of parchments of the flora and fauna of Rozarria; he also had several aides that he had hired on especially to inform him of regional differences in culture, climate, and cuisine. Larsa was aware that his young age was a handicap in state negotiations, particularly since he had not had the benefit of touring and visiting as a child.

Rozarrians were tall, slim, dark people, with smooth blue-toned cocoa skin and blue-black hair. Gray, blue, and amber eyes flashed disconcertingly against their faces; their teeth seemed very white. Many Rozarrians had black eyes like polished stones or wells of ink, and these Larsa found difficult to read.

The style of life was of studied decadence; not the busy, scrabbling snobbery of Archades, but a decadence borne of hot, humid seasons. Their jungles were inhabited by vicious beasts which served as a better ground patrol for their borders than any number of men; therefore, Rozarria focused her militaristic development in air fleets as opposed to ground troups, and kept watch more on the eastern border, which had once been Nabudis and was now a Mist-choked jagd. In these times of peace, Rozarria did well; she exported many delicate fruits, fabrics, dyes, and precious ores from her mountains. The only thing Rozarria lacked, and the reason she could be managed at all, was magicite.

With the fall of the Empire, control of the Lhusu mines had been returned to the free country of Bhujerba. Now, Archadia's sole source of magicite was the Henne mines. Rozarria naturally sought an alliance with a country with a magicite store. Larsa wondered if the Henne mines were rich enough to buy him a wife from this perfumed country, then chastised himself for the bitterness of the thought.

Lady Shuel, he reminded himself. I must be at pains to be kind. She knows aught of me.

He inhaled, exhaled. It had been years since he'd seen Penelo. She wrote him often, of course—long, chatty, warm missives. He wrote her as well, and if she noticed that his letters became shorter and cooler as the years went by, she never mentioned it.

He imagined her growing, filling out, and now, with her belly beginning to curve just the smallest bit.

He had seen Vaan just a few months ago, when a quest took the man to Archades. It was a fool's errand: the nomads' cockatrices had gotten loose once again.

The hunter lounged with typical aplomb in Larsa's audience chambers. He had one booted foot up on the armrest of a lounge, the other solid on the floor, and he leaned towards Larsa with his forearm braced on his tensed thigh. "Penelo is overseeing some kind of inventory change at the shop and told me to get out from under her feet for a few days," Vaan said, smiling. "There wasn't anything going on at Clan Centurio, so I'm doing this for the Giza nomads."

"Oh," Larsa said. Vaan had always been strong, but age had made his androgynous face more rugged, and his shoulders were striated with muscle. While Basch had kept his trademark weapon, the Zodiac spear, Vaan had kept the Tournesol, which he wore slung on a slant across his back. So far as Larsa knew, Vaan traipsed freely around the world with just that sword and his dubious command of magic to protect him.

"We just moved into a nice place in Rabanastre—_not_ Lowtown," Vaan said, smiling even wider. "It's sunny, has a view of the palace, right by the Clan hall—it's pretty much perfect."

"I'm glad to hear that," Larsa said, playing with quills on his desk.

"So when are you going to, I dunno, take a vacation, Larsa?" Vaan sprang off the lounge. "Penelo would love to have you, if you don't mind slumming it a little." Vaan waved his hands around at the luxurious Archadian audience chamber. "I know you're used to less fancy digs than this. C'mon, come back to Rabanastre with me, what do you say?"

He'd had to turn him down. He had good reasons. The demands of state did not allow Larsa to follow his personal inclinations, and New Archadia may well fall apart in his absence, no matter how short. But besides that, Larsa was not masochistic enough to accept. He could see Penelo, flitting about, fixing simple dinners and chattering about the shop as Vaan flexed and waved swords about. The image was enough to make him pale, and he had to quickly take a drink of water to cover his expression so Vaan did not suspect.

He liked Vaan. Larsa smiled at his ghostly reflection in the carriage glass, remembering the vibrant way the hunter had prowled around the audience chamber, juggling expensive paperweights and knick-knacks as he spoke, unable to sit still. Yes, he liked Vaan well, and he had enjoyed seeing him. That didn't change the fact that Vaan would get to spend the rest of his life with Penelo, and Larsa would not.

This is something I must get over, Larsa thought, straightening up in his seat and schooling his features into impassiveness. I like them both. I wish them well. Why can I not move on from this?

Penelo had been the first woman to treat Larsa as a person instead of a station or a title. There was that. And there was her subtle Dalmascan beauty, all corn-gold hair and soft rain-colored eyes—and, of course, she was not bedecked with jewels and paint. She was simple, kind, and expected nothing from him. Larsa had been at ease with her from the first, and at rest. She did not expect him to be the scion of a royal family, just Larsa.

He had also saved her—possibly his first ever masculine act.

It had made an impression, he thought, but an impression was all it was. Besides, his longing for Penelo had less to do with the woman herself and more to do with the longing to be free of the pressures of rebuilding a broken and hated state. He knew he was necessary, and there were few who could say that for themselves—but a part of him, a large part, longed for a simple love, a simple family, work that stopped at the end of the day—a life for himself, not for his country.

It was his oldest conflict, and one he knew would have no resolution while he continued to think of himself as an individual, which would be the rest of his life. He must live for Archadia. He was all she had. Like the greatest rulers in history, his great marriage must be to the state.

So, then, the Lady Shuel, Larsa said to himself, and dragged his abstracted gaze away from the carriage window.

"Please refresh me on everything I need to know about Rozarrian courting customs," he said to his aide, sitting opposite.

The aide jerked out of his own reverie, gathered his thoughts, and began to lecture in a monotone as the carriage bounced over the flagstones to the castle gates.


	4. Basch on Homecomings

Morning. Hmm.

Basch rolled out of bed and scrubbed his hands over his thick blonde hair, cut to regulation scruff (it took him two years to get over seeing his brother's face in the glass). Beard stubble scratched his fingertips.

Basch quickly set up the glass and basin to shave. Archadian miltary regulations dictated a smooth shave, but he stopped his razor just above his jaw line. Now that he was free to do as he wished, he wanted his beard back. He would allow his hair to grow, as well. Basch felt he looked like a teenager with his bare face and short hair, in spite of the lines around his eyes. He wanted—well, he wanted to look like Basch when Ashe saw him again. Gabranth had no part in this.

Then he had to face once more the fact that it was morning and he could no longer put it off. He had to write Ashe with the news that he was free.

Basch preferred to write on linen paper. He liked the way the weave caught the nib of his pen and sometimes caused his letters to look as if they had sprouted small, organic twigs and thorns. He dipped the quill into the inkwell.

Devil. How to begin? Greetings, My Queen? But she was not now his Queen, not in any binding sense. She had to accept him into her service before she could be his Queen. Presumptuous.

A knock at the door; Basch dropped his quill, spattering ink across the page.

"Sh—! Come in," he called.

He was dipping the quill back into the well when Argentine entered with a pitcher of coffee on a tray. Argentine cast quick eyes over his master's partially-shaved face, the spattered linen paper, and his general atmosphere of worry. "Here is your morning coffee, sir," he said, setting the mug and the pitcher at Basch's side and collecting the jug of wastewater in almost the same motion. "Good luck with your letter."

The door clicked shut behind Argentine just as Basch began to ask his advice. That was for the best, he decided, turning back to his page.

_I send my greetings to the Queen of Dalmasca. _

_Emporer Larsa and I just yesterday had a most peculiar conversation. He is ever thinking towards the benefit of Archadia. _

_He needs to earn his people's love so the bitter draught he brings goes down the easier. Ultimately, he advocates that each man rule his own life. I believe he could not, once he reached this ultimate conclusion, continue to hold me in his service. Emporer Larsa desires to be no man's master._

Basch lifted his pen from the page, thought, and rewet the nib. _Now I am free to return to any country I desire that will have me. _The letters shone on the linen for a brief moment before drying to matte.

_I never told you much of Landis,_ he wrote. _It was a mountainous, alpine country, now entirely within the northernmost boundary of Archadia. Most of the people there herded goats for milk, yarn, meat. Dyes were highly prized. Life was simple and rugged. _

_I drilled on boulders and ice-laced screes, under solar Mist-storms that burned across the sky in mid-winter. I remember those lights reflecting off the frozen fall of ice-cicles that stretched from bluff-lip to ground. Queen Ashelia, not once in all our travels did I see a sight more beautiful than the light on that mid-winter ice, but other than that sentimental sight, Landis was not rich in much._

_Landis is now so thoroughly a part of Archadia that many who were of Landis now call themselves ancestral Archadians. Our farms were dismantled, our townships razed, our women scattered, our history rewritten and defaced. In spite of this I remember Landis as my father country, the land of cold lights._

_As Landis is now destroyed, I pray Dalmasca will claim maternity. I submit myself to your service, Lady Ashe, and await your command._

_Basch Fon Ronsenburg. _

He reread it.

He added: _Though I respect and love Lord Larsa, and am honored to have served him, I will be happy to see my friends again._

That was as good as he could do. The desk was littered with spoiled parchment and bent nibs. He sealed the parchment with his wax and his sigil and slid it into a scrollcase. Argentine took it from him to be posted. Via post, it would get to Dalmasca, and into the Queen's hands, in about two days.

"Wait!" Basch called.

Argentine looked back over his shoulder, holding the door open.

"Here's a teleport crystal," Basch said. He held it up as he walked across the room and knotted it into his color-cord dangling off the end of the scrollcase. "Have it delivered to her today."

"Yes, sir!" Argentine said. Teleport crystals were held to be quite expensive, and to use one on a mere scrollcase commanded a certain degree of respect. Basch had dozens of them from his hunts for collectible batwings during his free adventuring days.

Basch sighed when the door closed behind the man-servant, feeling more drained than he would after an entire week spent in a dungeon.


	5. Message

Ashe was irritated.

The nobles of her country were not content to simply be members of a superpower; they wanted more- they wanted the Lhusu mines. They pointed out that it would be a simple matter, with twelve Espers, to conquer Bhujerba, which had no army. At the moment, Dalmasca bought magicite at market value. The nobles argued that free magicite would raise the standard of living of every Dalmascan citizen, which would, of course, include the Bhujerbans after their surrender. The only thing stopping them was Ashe. They needed her to agree and wage the war, and she, rightly, commented that she was their Queen, not their sword. This did not stop them from arguing with her, and the weekly counsel dissolved in acrimony.

She sighed, flopping into a straight-backed chair; only the richly-embroidered rug which cushioned it marked it as the furniture of a Queen. Her nobles had learned nothing from the war. They were ready to become imperials themselves. She was disgusted.

A knock at her chamber door interrupted these bitter musings. At her summons, a servant entered. "Message from Archades, my lady." As Ashe accepted the scroll, she added, "It came by teleport crystal."

She raised her eyebrows. "Please leave me," she said. The only reason to teleport a scroll was if the news it contained was of vital importance. Perhaps one of her lords had gone behind her back and raised a private army to wage war on Bhujerba. Please, gods, no. She would dispatch any treachery without batting an eyelash, but she did not need the political upheaval which would inevitably result.

Then she noticed the colors of the knotted signature cord on the end of the scrollcase. Basch. As though he had somehow heard her thoughts of the night before. Her hands shook as she unscrewed the case and tipped out the scroll.

_I send my greetings to the Queen of Dalmasca..._

A shiver went down her spine. She remembered his voice, deep and rough from screaming on battlefields, and the heat of his body as he stood by her side, ready to leap in front of her at the first sign of danger. He never, ever touched her, as though afraid she would burn him, as if he weren't worthy. But she touched him- oh, yes, she did- every chance she got, her hands on his wounds as her white magic healed him, revived him, removed his curses. She begrudged every potion he drank, the quick swig-and-swallow they all perfected during their travels.

She absorbed the message in one long look and rang her bell. A maid appeared immediately. "Wine," she ordered.

She reread the message as she sipped her drink, and by the time she noticed she had it, the glass was half-empty. Fortunately her maid knew her habits and had brought the decanter. Ashe refilled her glass and read the message yet again.

She kept writing utensils at her desk as a matter of course, and for once, she set out the parchment and the quill to write about something other than a matter of state. She took a few deep breaths before she began, and another sip of wine; and then, for many minutes, she simply sat, staring at the page. She knew what she wanted to write- _Please,__come__home,__Basch-_ but it seemed too... well... forward. She reread his message. A perfectly-mannered, well-written, well-bred missive. There was no promise of passion there. It was not a love letter. It was simply informed her that Basch had been released from Lord Larsa's service, and asked to be accepted into hers.

She flicked the feathered quill against her lips, tapped the nib on the table. Took another sip of wine. Reread Basch's letter.

Oh, damn, and double-damn. Was she not the Queen? She straightened her posture, tightened her mouth, and set pen to the paper.

_Oh, my good Basch-_

_Two such as we, who have travelled so far together, need not stand on ceremony when addressing one another. I camped as Amalia with your men in the sewers, and stood hip-deep in the blood of the dragons you slayed. _

_If you feel you must serve as a knight to a Queen, then come, and serve. If you wish to be free, then come, and be free. You are welcome in Dalmasca in any role you choose. You have the Queen's permission and seal to travel in these lands. But please, when you arrive, make haste to the castle and show this letter to my guards. They will see to your comfort and send for me at once._

_I have not had much opportunity these past three years to maintain the friendships I made during that terrible war. This is something I daily regret. The chance to renew our acquaintance fills me with great joy. Dalmasca is proud to have you as her son and awaits your return._

_Very truly,_

_Queen Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca._

She read it over. The warmth of the letter was tempered by the final paragraph- a piece of statesmanship of which she was quite proud. It firmly set the boundaries of what she expected. She would joyfully admit him to her kingdom, and she would command her servants to see to his every need, but as a good friend and warrior-in-arms who saved her life more times than she could count. Any familiarity she showed toward him could be taken as the gratitude of a Queen. It was not a beautiful letter, but then writing had never been her strong suit. All but the briefest of her official court documents were ghost-written by more talented wordsmiths than she. Still. It would do. And she would never have one of her ghost writers present while she stammered and stuttered over what she wanted to say.

She ground the royal seal into the ink pad and pressed it against the parchment, staining it with the highest pass in the land. Those bearing the royal seal were known to be on the Queen's own business, and she had not once in her three years of rule had reason to entrust such a high permission to any man. But Basch, she knew, would not abuse it, and she would not have him detained for his Archadian clothes or his foreign accent. Besides, there was something about Basch that _made_people and monsters wish to attack him. Many times she'd seen wild beasts veer from their charge directly at her to sink their fangs into him instead. She would not have him thrown in the dungeon simply because he defended himself.

She rang the bell, and her maid entered the chamber once again.

"Knot this with my colors, and post it via teleportation crystal to Archades," she commanded.

"Yes, my lady," the maid said. She bowed and took the scrollcase, disappearing from the room.

He would have the letter by tomorrow at the latest. If he chose to teleport, he could be in Dalmasca by tomorrow afternoon. She smiled. Suddenly, the problems with her nobles did not seem so bad.

That night, Ashe washed with special care, massaging sweet soap into her scalp and rinsing twice. Her handmaidens stood by with soft towels, but the water she used was so hot it evaporated almost as soon as she left the bath. They massaged lotion into her skin against the desert's flaking heat, and wrapped her in a silken robe, then left her.

Ashe stood on her balcony under the silvery moon, her shadow thrown long over the stones, and stared off towards Archades. She was half-amused, half-disgusted at herself. It was as though she expected him to fall to one knee the moment he saw her, his eyes bedazzled by her beauty. What nonsense. She was losing her edge in her old age. She shook her head. Basch- protective of her? Yes. As he was of any woman, chivalry being as much a part of him as his scruffy blond hair. And yet there was no sense in making a grand passion of it. She was the Queen, and part of her noble bloodline was a certain sense of entitlement. For almost all material desires, she had only to ring a bell. But people weren't goods or services. There was every chance that what Basch had written was all there was- he had been released from service and did not consider Archadia his home, and where Basch called home was important to him. She knew that much.

He would have to lead her. She shook her head at her own thoughts. Lead her? Though he would make a fine king, Basch would come to her castle as a knight to his lady. He simply had no other way of being. If he desired her- which, she had to admit, if she were being completely honest, he very well might- he would conceal it. Too base an emotion to feel towards a Queen from one so lowly as he, a man who allowed his homeland to fall, a man who killed his brother. Nonsense, again! How would the good knight react if she broke out of her role and humbled herself to him, asked him to render her a service he had never imagined of offering? She smiled.

And screamed as hands closed around her throat!

Her attacker lifted her from her feet, the fingers tightening around her windpipe, choking her. Through the all-consuming desire for air, Ashe searched for her Espers, tried to touch their power- and failed. Something had taken her magic away from her! Her cries to her captive gods fell on deaf ears. She could not heal herself, and blood ran down her throat. She could not draw air to cough. She could not draw air to breathe. She was dying...

But she was Ashelia B'Nargin Dalmasca, and she did not accept such a death as this. To die at the hands of an unseen assassin, a man so cowardly he attacked her from behind as she dreamed? No- just no- she would not have it. Ashe kicked, the heel of her foot finding her assailant's kneecap, and pistoned back her elbow, connecting with his gut. The hands around her throat loosened in surprise, and she was able to gasp for air, almost strangling on her blood. She flung herself forward, pitching half-over the battlement, and broke his hold entirely. Free now, Ashe skipped away, wishing for a knife, a sword, anything with a cutting edge, so she could dispatch this nuisance and then have a few strong words with her personal guards.

Oh, yes, her guards. She'd never before had to call upon them. She did now.

"Guards! Intruder! Guards!"

She ran into her bedchamber, evading the man's hands. Knife- knife- she had one somewhere. Damn her complacency! One of her nobles had to be behind this. And her maids- someone had drained her mana. Could it have been one of them? The birth of paranoia rocked her, but she shoved it aside. Right now her life was in danger, and she needed a weapon.

Her scrabbling hands found a heavy paperweight in her desk. "Guards!" she called again.

If only she had her magic at her command! Forget her Espers- they were almost useless in battle anyway, not that she ever shared that bit of information with her people- she had Scathe, she had Flare. She travelled over half the world and destroyed legendary beasts for the magic at her command, _and __she __could __not __use __it __now_.

The frustration was too much. Ashe screamed and lifted the paperweight, wheeled to face the man who tried to kill her. She had the impression of wide blue eyes before she brought the paperweight down between them, breaking the bridge of his nose, driving shards of bone deep into his face. He was not expecting her violence- that much was apparent by his look of surprise, his hands rising up to grip her shoulders, his mouth contorting.

"Who is your master?" she shrieked into his face.

He opened his mouth, a bubble of mucus bursting on his last breath. His pupils yawned into deep, black holes within his blue irises as death took him.

And now came the guards, of course, bursting into her chamber to find their Queen sodden with blood, the chunk of raw magicite in her hands dripping with gore. She dropped it- with enough care that it did not land on the handwoven rug she liked- on the floor. She was not shaking. She had killed before. But she was furious, and as she turned to express herself on that point, the first guards into the room backpedaled into the next series of guards to respond.

She said, her voice colder than Mist, "And where were you?"


	6. Political Necessities

A/N: I have an unavoidable original character in here. Someone run the Mary Sue checklist for me.

Lord Larsa's assigned bed-chamber embarrassed him.

An open-air pavilion paved with marble tile embraced a view of a glassy lake, which reflected the dusk in peach and lavendar. Climbing vines of frail moon-flowers spilled their heady scent on the evening breeze. Filmy netting hung from every available post and molding, billowing like the ghosts of sails.

His circular bed was large enough for both himself and, say, a harem, piled with pillows enough to smother them all should they displease him, and hung with even more netting. Confronted by the sight of all this protective fabric, Larsa had to wonder whether Rozarria had mosquitoes more akin to vampire bats. When he tried to sit on the bed, the downy mattress almost swallowed him.

He was accustomed to luxury- as Emporer of Archadia, he had little choice- but this verged on absurdity.

Fortunately, the fragile-looking crystal desk in the center of the room proved perfectly sturdy, and he was able to organize his parchments and scrolls and books and teleport crystals and pens and nibs and inkwells to his satisfaction. Once he had the silly engraved surface covered by matters of state, he felt as though he had crafted a small pocket of sanity in the midst of a drug-induced delerium.

This room was a far cry from the heavy wood and dour tapestries of the Imperial Palace. It seemed to taunt every attempt at serious thought. He would never be able to get any work done here.

Sighing, Larsa looked about for some way to blockade the omnipresent breeze. Romantic though it was, it ruffled his papers, and the desk- smugly, it seemed to him- bore no paperweight.

He was wrestling a vast screen out from behind the bed (having found it after a few angry moments fighting off the netting, which must have been enchanted to envelope him) when a tinkling sound attracted his attention.

"Is everything well, my lord?" a woman asked. The tinkling came from violet bells embroidered to the edge of her charcoal-colored veil, which swathed her from crown to toe, wrapped and doubled over itself so it outlined her form. Larsa noted, sourly, that the material seemed similar to the netting which he had already come to despise. He could just make out enormous eyes and the faint outline of her nose, but no other details presented themselves.

"No," he snapped. He stopped. This irritation was not like him. He took a deep breath and began again. "Unfortunately, it is not. You see, I have some matters to attend to which cannot be put off, and your Rozarrian architecture, while beautiful, is proving impractical to the task. I could use some help setting up this screen. It is lovely- Viera-carved, is it not?- but even the Viera cannot make linganwood feather weight." He smiled to take the sting from his words and spread his hands, injecting an air of noble helplessness into both his tone and his posture. Nevermind that he already almost had the damn thing free of the confectionary bed.

"I see," the woman said. She bowed her head and folded her hands in front of her. "If you would, accept my humble apologies. That screen ought to have been set out for your convenience before you were shown to these quarters, my lord. This oversight shall be rectified at once. Please, do not trouble yourself with it any further. Perhaps I can bring you some wine while you wait?"

Larsa slapped a hand on a riffling parchment which was shredding one of his last nerves. "Perhaps that would be wise," he said, smiling wryly. "The trip appears to have put me out of sorts. Accept my apologies in return; I am not my usual self."

"Of course," the woman said, bowing her head again. "I understand perfectly. Please wait while I give the necessary orders."

With a tinkle of bells and a rustle of soft fabric, she exited the room, leaving Larsa with the heavy-pit sensation that he had just committed a terrible gaffe. She was to give orders for the placement of the screen? And- his stomach sank further- she had been veiled. This was the custom for high-ranking Rozarrian women meeting men for the first time. He had just given his first impression to Lady Shuel.

He massaged his temples. What was done was done. He could not take his irritation back. Nor, when he thought about it, did he truly want to. Lady Shuel was to be a political wife. If she expected tenderness or passion from him, she would have her dreams shattered. Better for her to see him at his worst from the start, so she could prepare herself and enter the union with her eyes open.

She seemed well-bred. Her accent gave music to her low voice. She had not been flustered by him, had seen his need and acted upon it: a sign of responsibility. No silly, pampered princess then, but from what he knew of the customs of this country, the women were raised to be poised in all circumstances. Pleasant enough in the short term, but eventually, it would pall. She would, no doubt, break from her cocoon in Archadia, where individualism was prized. But what would emerge- moth or butterfly?

He was getting ahead of himself. They had only just met, after all, and he had not given the best of impressions. He had snapped at her as though she were a servant girl, and he was ashamed of himself; no one, neither servant nor lady, deserved a display of temper.

She returned with a silver cup and a bottle of wine. She set the cup on the edge of the parchment which had been irritating him and poured the wine, then set the bottle on the edge of another parchment which looked ready to revolt. Then she sat in a chair beside him and watched him sip, When he raised the cup, she quickly rearranged his papers so the bottle would weight them all.

"Do not do that!" he cried.

"My apologies," she said, "but until the screen is set up, these papers will continue to annoy you, my lord."

"Let them," he said. "You need not be the author of all my comforts. Allow me to earnestly apologize for my irritability before. I am not usually thus." He sipped his wine. "I am Lord Larsa, as I believe you know," he said. "And I have gathered, in your absence, that you must be Lady Shuel."

"This is so," she said, bowing her head. "Greetings to you, Lord Larsa."

"And greetings to you, Lady Shuel," Larsa replied, feeling ridiculous. The wine was stronger than what he was used to. He set the cup down after a last sip, pledging silently to wait until he saw how it effected him. "I fear I have not made a good first impression."

"Perhaps not," the lady agreed, "and yet I am put at my ease by your- forgive me, my lord- imperfection. The information I was given was quite the opposite, you must understand." She inclined her head, the bells sounding softly. He could not read her expression behind the charcoal veil, but perhaps she was smiling.

"It must not be easy for you to so suddenly be presented to a man you may wed, as though you were a sweetmeat in a market."

"What else is there?" the woman asked. "My country needs magicite, my lord. I am a daughter of my country, and I will do as I am told."

Could she truly be so calm? Larsa wished he could see her face. "I do not like this idea of purchasing materials with human bodies," he said, pretending to sip the wine so he could hide his face in turn. "It smacks of slavery."

"Does not your country purchase its governance through children?"

"An odd way to put it, Lady Shuel," Larsa said, a frown creasing his forehead. "The succession is determined- for the moment- through the royal bloodline, but I will change that through my work." He gestured at the parchments. "The work of my life."

"But your position, you did not choose," the lady said. "You were born to your title and accepted your work to answer the need of your country. I was born to the royal house, and I will do what I must, as you do. We are no different, you see."

"We speak of freedom, not responsibilities," Larsa said. "Though I was born an heir, and made one through the actions of my brother, I am free to change the system of rulership of my kingdom. Are you free to refuse me, should you wish to? Or have you been commanded to wed me for Archadia's magicite?"

She looked out through the pavilion to the lake, which had taken on hues of navy and indigo as night fell. Her bells described in music the motion of her head. "No Rozarrian is forced to do anything she finds repulsive. We are a civilized state. And yet, I love my people. I have an opportunity to do something for them which will enrich their lives. I would not forgive myself should I turn it down. Does that answer your question sufficiently, my lord Larsa?"

Perhaps it did. Larsa allowed himself another sip of wine. Nobles. Responsibility. Sacrifices for the people. These were familiar themes. He found himself disquieted, hearing his own thoughts from another's mouth. He was especially concerned with how deeply he wished to argue with her, to shake her, to tell her she can find her own happiness. That she need not give herself to her nation. But this went against everything he stood for.

As they spoke, servants had spread the screen across the pavilion, and for the first time that evening, the breeze stopped. The servants unshielded the baskets of sunstones, letting light into the darkened chamber, and then left the room. Through the Viera-screen's windows of horn, moonlight glowed faint gold.

"And what of you?" the lady asked. "We have spoken so much of me, my hopes. Perhaps you do not wish to wed a woman you have never met. Is there anyone you love, Lord Larsa? Is there some other woman you would wish to be sitting here?"

He could feel her eyes on him. With the lost light of day, the veil was more opaque than ever. The image of Penelo standing at a window, her hand on her belly, watching for Vaan, jolted through him. His hand shook. The wine in his cup trembled.

"My apologies, my lord. I should not have spoken so plainly. But I see that I was right."

Larsa shook his head. "No- it is nothing. It has already passed. I have a foolish boyhood infatuation, that is all. She is a peasant. There was never anything between us. We fought in the war together when we were both very young. She is to be a mother soon. The father of the child is a fond friend of mine."

Damn the wine. Oh, damn, damn the wine. He should never have said any of that. The bald sentences fell to the marble tiles of this decadent room like small stones.

"I appreciate your honesty," the lady said. She stood. "You are to stay here a week, I am told. We will speak again tomorrow. For now, I will no longer distract you from your work- good night."

Lady Shuel withdrew, a skirl of veil in her wake like the lashing tale of an angry coeurl.

Lord Larsa was certain she did not appreciate his honesty. Fortunately, she had left the wine. And his original suspicion proved correct: he did no work that night.


End file.
